


Little Tchaikovsky, Venti latte, with Soy

by PorcelainBlue



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gilbert is a godamn trainwreck, M/M, Roderich is very much in denial, Starbucks, at some point they go on a date its great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:16:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PorcelainBlue/pseuds/PorcelainBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilbert Beilschmidt works as a barista at the local Starbucks, and finds a new regular customer to bother. The only thing is, the lovely, brown haired, bespectacled musician refuses to tell him his name.</p><p>(It might have something to do with calling him Princess when he delivers his drink.) </p><p>---</p><p>Roderich Edelstein just wants to get his coffee and head back to school, where he is drowning in performances and classes. The brash, annoying barista at starbucks just happens to be the only person who seems to be able to make his drink to his preferences, never mind that he is ridiculously attractive, and calls him 'Princess'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Tchaikovsky, Venti latte, with Soy

‘I’m telling you, ‘tonio, I think he likes me,” Gilbert says, leaning easily on the counter even as his hands never stop moving, prepping drinks with the practiced ease of someone who has survived the customer service hellhole that is working as a Starbucks barista.

Antonio just hands him the cash for his caffe latte, (and a $2 tip, thank you very much, Carriedo), and laughs.

“Gil, are you sure your pretty boy exists? And if he does, are you sure you didn’t just piss him off so much his face turned red?”

Gilbert briefly considers poisoning the drink he’s about to hand to his best friend, but decides he’s a better man than that. He grins, as he hears the clang of the bell as someone enters from their store’s back door. Three o’clock, on the dot. Antonio blinks as a steaming hot cup is pressed into his hands and Gilbert disappears to the counter in record time. He looks at the customer that Gilbert is all but grinning wolfishly at, and snorts. Gilbert’s pretty boy did exist, after all. He brings his drink to the corner table where Francis is waiting, to get a better view.

“Is that him?” Francis murmurs conspiratorially. Antonio nods, intrigued to see the young man that had their friend in such high spirits lately. Their friend was an absolute trainwreck when it came to dating, and the two of them had greatly doubted that a pretty young musician would have succumbed to the lacking wiles of Gilbert Beilschmidt.

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Princess,” Gilbert says, feeling his face crack into a wide grin as he regards the newfound focus of his teasing. The young man furrows his brow, affronted as usual, a pink flush gracing his high cheekbones before his terse order comes. 

“-a Venti, with soy,” Gilbert cuts him off smoothly, already starting to prep the drink, “I’ve got your order memorised, princess, no worries,” He grins. His young musician (he assumed, the Cello case he had slung over one delicate shoulder was enough to go on) was always terribly fun to bother, and Gilbert would have been worried about how much he wanted to get under this particular customer’s skin, but he was too distracted thinking of what monicker to write on the young man’s cup to worry.

“My name is not _Princess_ ,” the man grits out, his lovely forehead marred by a deepening scowl. Gilbert squashes the urge to reach out and smooth it out with his thumb, and laughs easily.

“You could just tell me your name, little Mozart,” Gilbert says, “you know my name, it hardly seems fair.” 

“The only reason I know your name, _Gilbert_ , is because it’s on your name tag,” the young man bites out, clearly irritated. “I refuse on principle,” he finishes, and stalks off after taking his receipt from Gilbert. 

Five minutes later, Gilbert is rewarded with a lovely flush on his musician customers face when he presses the tea latte into his pale hands. ‘Little Tchaikovsky’, with a smiley face, was written on his cardboard cup. The young man looked like he was torn between confusion, irritation, and embarrassment. The awkward silence as he stands there, rich brown hair falling into his eyes, makes Gilbert wonder if he’d gone too far. 

“I’m sorry, I, uh-“ Gilbert begins, god, Antonio was right, he really had never graduated beyond pulling on pigtails in the sandbox in kindergarten- “Do you not like Tchaikovsky, or something?”

He feels terribly out of his depth, when those violet eyes look up and meet his, and that expression is for once not furrowed in anger, or indignation. His musician is looking at him, a little confused, those wide eyes blinking up at him, and Gilbert _really_ wants to know this man's name.

“No, I…” he begins, voice soft, “I love Tchaikovsky,” his customer says, and Gilbert has no idea why that face seems so open, and vulnerable. His stomach does a little flop. 

“I.. uh,” Gilbert begins, before getting cut off by a loud, “Excuse me!” at the front of the line.

“Shit,” he mutters, “I’ll be right with you!” he calls, shooting one last regretful look at the young musician, who had taken his drink and nodded his goodbye. He rushes to take the orders of the after 4pm rush of people crowding into the cafe.

 

* * *

 

Roderich walks quickly out of the cafe, relieved and flustered. Why _had_ he been so embarassed, when that loud, irritating barista had called him Tchaikovsky? He takes a deep breath, and takes a sip of his latte. It tastes perfect. Annoyingly so. Roderich had been going to that particular Starbucks for a little over a month, now, and had met Gilbert when he had been asked, “What’s your name, little prince?” as the man took his order. The resulting offense at being called _little_ and prince, of all things, had led to a bickering round and a resolution to never tell the crass barista his name. He absolutely could not stand the man, never mind that he made Roderich’s drink perfectly every single time, and insisted on calling him strange pet names, and kept brushing his fingers when he handed him his change, and his shoulders, and the startling white hair– everything about the man was frustrating.

He hadn’t thought the man capable of remorse, but when he had paused, and apologised for possibly going to far, Roderich’s ire had softened. Gilbert had absolutely no idea that Roderich had been having an absolutely terrible week at the conservatory, and had been subsequently second guessing his decision and place at the institution, studying music.

Oddly enough, the messily scrawled _Little Tchaikovsky :)_ in black sharpie on his cardboard cup had lifted his spirits a little, reminding him of his favourite composer, and the reason he had fallen in love with music in the first place. Roderich shook his head abruptly, trying to ignore the warmth in his face as he remembered the surprising look of concern the barista had earlier. Was his expression that obvious, that he was rattled enough that the man could look at him like that?  


* * *

 

“ _Mon dieu_ , Gil,” the smug, absolutely annoying voice of Francis Bonnefoy sounds out behind him. Gilbert sighs, gives the table one last, frustrated wipe, and turns around to regard his other best friend.

  
“What?” He doesn’t have to be polite to Francis; not when that tone of voice suggests that Francis would be saying some very annoying things in the very near future. Gilbert braces himself. 

“He was so cute, your little paramour,” Francis begins, and Gilbert raises his eyebrows warily. “But my dear, darling Gilbert, you have to try a little harder if you want him to like you,”

Behind him, Antonio is nodding in agreement. Gilbert grins and waves their concern away.

“I am doing absolutely fine, I don’t see what the problem is,” he says, wiping the next table down.

“Annoying someone until they turn red is not actually wooing someone, Gil,” Antonio says, fiddling with a straw.

“Yeah, like you don’t do that to Lovino every time you see him,” Gilbert says, narrowing his eyes at the man.

Antonio flushes a little, and scowls at him. “That is.. different,” he says, drawing himself up defensively. Francis waves a hand between them as though trying to waft the subject back to Gilbert's apparent lack of romantic delicacy.

  
“Yes, thank you, Antonio, you are absolutely right. You have to _romance_ the man, Gilbert, I am sure you have it in your cold German heart.”  

“Prussian,” Gilbert corrects automatically, trying not to think of doing anything that Francis or Antonio would consider ‘wooing’ – it was all far too embarrassing, there was absolutely no way Gilbert could say any of their lines without wanting the ground to swallow him up inside, let alone in front of his musician, with his perfectly groomed eyebrows and razor sharp judgement.

He’s interrupted from cleaning up the cafe when Francis grabs his hands, rag and all.  

“Promise me you will try, Gil, you are sad and lonely and it is time you learnt that pulling pigtails is not romance, yes? It is my duty as a friend to support you through this,” he declares, and Gilbert can’t decide if he wants to thwap his friend on the head in annoyance or be amused. He settles for an in between, punching Francis lightly on the shoulder as he locks up the cafe.

  
“Okay, okay, you stubborn assholes, I will be ‘nicer’,” Gilbert laughs, as the three of them head out into the night.

 

* * *

 

The bell rings again at 3pm the next Tuesday, and Gilbert smiles as he greets his stubborn customer.

 “Hello, Tchaikovsky,” he teases, tone easy. The young man blinks up at him, confused and far less hostile than usual. Gilbert notices that the dark circles under his lovely eyes have faded somewhat, and some colour seems to have returned to those pale cheekbones.

“Hello,” the musician says, wary.

“Your usual?” Gilbert asks, reaching for the cup when he receives an affirmative nod.

He hums as he ticks the little boxes on the cardboard cup, scrawling ‘soy’, until he pauses.

“Should I make this out to Tchaikovsky? I gather you like it more than ‘Princess,” he waits, watching as those eyebrows furrow slightly, and smooth out again.

A soft, resigned sigh.

  
“I do like Tchaikovsky better,” the musician says, ignoring any mention of his other, Gilbert-approved nickname. Gilbert blinks, a little disappointed, as he begins to write a ‘T’ on the cup. It seemed that he’d never get to know this man’s name. Ironic, considering the context of their acquaintance.  

“Roderich.”

That one word shocks Gilbert enough that he almost drops the cup.

“What?"

“Roderich. My name is Roderich,” his customer says, looking a little concerned and amused at Gilbert’s obvious shock. Gilbert has to firmly ignore the sad, pathetic little wriggle his heart gives at the sight of him smiling.

“Roderich,” he says, smiling as he forms the name for the first time. After two months of nicknames, royal titles, dead musicians, _Roderich_ fits nicely, comfortably, on his tongue. He crosses out the ‘T’ on the cup, writes it out, and smiles at Roderich.

“It’s nice to meet you, Roderich,” he says, and he cannot help the warmth in his voice.

Roderich blinks, surprised, until his face relaxes, and he smiles tentatively at Gilbert.

“And you, Gilbert,” he says.

 

* * *

 

It’s three o’clock, and Roderich is not here. Gilbert tries ignore the fact that he’d been rubbernecking the back entrance, hoping to see Roderich enter. He’d not been coming recently, and Gilbert was starting to wonder if a) Roderich was dead, or b) Roderich was avoiding him.

“You really should have gotten his number by now,” Francis murmurs, leaning against the counter and sipping his coffee.

 “Shut up, Francis,” Gilbert says, “Not all of us are magically able to seduce the world with a flick of a finger.”

He’s not really that bitter, he’s just grouchy today- which has nothing to do with the fact that Roderich hadn’t come for the third week in a row.

 Francis smiles at him knowingly, and reaches over to pat him on the shoulder.

 “He will show up, Gil, don’t worry. He likes you, remember?” Francis gives him a friendly wave, and retreats back to his table where his date is waiting. Gilbert scowls at him, and returns to work.

 “Goddamn, I need to get his number,” he mutters.

 

* * *

 

It’s 10:55. Gilbert hears the back door open, and groans. Of course there would be customers five minutes before closing, on the one day that all his colleagues had left early. He turns around to face the cash register, fake smile in place as he prepares to greet the inconsiderate bastard who clearly never worked a customer service job and therefore thought it was okay to come in five minutes before closing. When he sees Roderich, all irritation fades away, swiftly replaced by a growing sense of alarm.

Roderich looked like hell. His normally perfect hair was a mess, like he’d been pushing it back out of his face in frustration. His skin was drawn tight, and he looked exhausted, like he was two minutes from passing out over the cash register.

  
“Holy shit, Roderich, what happened to you?” he asks, alarmed.

  
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here so late, I just…” Roderich looks terribly guilty, and terribly tired. Gilbert makes a quick decision,  coming out from behind the counter to gently steer Roderich into a nearby chair, and moving to the door to flip the ‘Open’ sign over.

 “I need, coffee, or something,” Roderich mumbles.

Gilbert ignores him, quickly preparing a cup of hot tea with soymilk for the exhausted musician. “You don’t need coffee, you need sleep,” he says, pressing the warm drink into Roderich’s trembling hands.

“When was the last time you ate?” Gilbert asks, heating up a sandwich without waiting for a reply.

“It’s been… finals… I haven’t- I don’t remember,” Roderich finishes awkwardly, vulnerable and tired and damn, even like this he looked lovely, curled up in the chair, holding his drink close for warmth. He sets the plate down in front of Roderich, tearing his eyes from the soft, white curve of Roderich’s neck as he leans down and buries his face in his hands.

  
“Eat,” he says, turning away to start cleaning up the cafe. He’s pleased to see Roderich, and a part of him is relieved that it wasn’t him being avoided. Even so, the sight of the young man so clearly exhausted did something strange to him – Gilbert wanted to feed him, wanted to make sure he was okay, because clearly the guy couldn’t be trusted to keep himself alive for a few weeks. He takes his time cleaning the cafe, and when he is finally done, he goes back to the corner where he left Roderich.

“Hey Roddy, I’ve fini-” he stops mid-sentence, blinking at the sight of Roderich curled up on the sofa-seat, head lolling sideways as he dozes lightly. He looks so vulnerable, and so peaceful, that Gilbert cannot bear to wake him. He looks at his watch, and sends a quick text to Antonio and Francis, calling off their plans for tonight. Settling down onto the couch next to Roderich, he pulls out his book and starts reading, Roderich warm by his side.

 

* * *

 

It’s a little past 2am when Roderich stirs, blinking blearily to regard his unfamiliar surroundings. He feels drowsy–the weeks leading up to his finals had been exhausting, and feeling exhausted was not an unfamiliar feeling, but drowsy instead exhausted, that was new. Feeling warm and safe and comfortable was also new. He sits up, looking around, only to freeze in horror when he realises that the soft, warm pillow he’d been asleep on was none other than Gilbert’s shoulder. Gilbert’s shoulders, the very same broad, attractive shoulders he’d been firmly _not_ eyeing. Gilbert with his arms draped easily over the back of the sofa. He’d fallen asleep on Gilbert, he’d realised, mortified. Roderich was about to stammer out an apology when he realised that Gilbert, too, had fallen asleep, a book lying open in his lap. Curiously, Roderich peered at the barista's’ face. Gilbert’s eyelashes were light, just like his shocking white hair. Everything about the man was kind of shocking. His mannerisms, his surprising kindness, the fact that he stayed up with Roderich just to let him sleep, his red eyes, which were staring right back at him-

With a jolt, Roderich jerks back, alarmed and losing his balance only to be steadied by a warm, firm grip on his arm.

“I’m so sorry, Gilbert, I, uh-” Roderich stammers, bright red and utterly embarrassed.

“You look better,” Gilbert says. His voice is rough with sleep, and the sound sends a small shiver up Roderich’s spine.

“...Thank you,” Roderich says, ashamed and overwarm.

“What happened?” Gilbert asks, patient and kind and Roderich’s heart is absolutely not beating a little faster.

“I.. uh… may have overworked myself,” Roderich mumbles, trying not to focus on the fact that Gilbert’s hands were still steadying him, and that he was basically encircled in Gilbert’s arms. He doesn’t think he can get any redder.

Gilbert laughs a little, face unexpectedly soft.

“You think? C’mon, you should head home and sleep in an actual bed,” he says, smiling broadly at him. Roderich has no idea how the man can be so comfortable and not-awkward, considering his initial inability to not put his foot in his mouth and insult Roderich while trying to get his name.

“I didn’t pay,” Roderich says, uncertain, looking at the sandwich he had left half eaten on the table. Gilbert waves his protest away, smiling. “I’ve got this one,” he says arily, as he led Roderich out of the cafe and locked up.

“Absolutely not,” Roderich begins, determined to pay for the meal he technically did not order.

“If you want to pay me,” Gilbert begins, a slow smile spreading on his handsome face, “Why don’t you buy me a meal? One sandwich, a drink. I don’t work on Saturday.”

Roderich stares.

The silence stretches on, and Gilbert starts to think that he may have grossly miscalculated, until Roderich speaks again, ears pink.

“I, uh. I have practice on Saturday,” the musician says. Gilbert’s heart falls.

“How about Sunday?” Roderich asks, looking up at him. His eyes are a strange colour under the street light, and Gilbert feels a little giddy.

“Sunday is great,” he says softly.

 

* * *

 

“You absolutely cannot go to MacDonalds,” Francis says. The frenchman looks almost insulted at the idea. “ _Mon dieu_ , no wonder you always get dumped, Gilbert.”

“Hey, that was low,” Gilbert protests.

“It’s almost as bad as Starbucks,” his friend says derisively.

  
“You took your date to Starbucks!!” Gilbert says, affronted, “And I work there!” 

Antonio pats him consolingly on the shoulder. “Exactly, my friend, exactly.”

“I don’t see why you guys have to make a big deal out of it, it’s just a meal.”

“It’s a date!” The two men say in unison, clearly frustrated.

Gilbert blinks, considers this, and gives in.

  
“Where should I go, then?”

 

* * *

 

He is saved from the arduous decision of picking a fancy french restaurant and a fancy spanish restaurant when he receives a text from Roderich on Saturday.  


**Roderich Edelstein**

_Should we just meet at Starbucks tomorrow? Or are you sick of the food there?_

 

**Gilbert Beilschmidt**

_Surprisingly enough, I hardly eat the food at work. 6:30 good?_

 

**Roderich Edelstein**

_Okay. See you then._

 

Antonio and Francis could take their fancy restaurants and shove off, Gilbert thought smugly.

 

* * *

 

They meet up at Starbucks, and Roderich is surprised to see Gilbert _not_ in a black shirt and green apron. Instead, he’s in a soft looking T shirt, and ripped jeans. His sleeves are short enough to show a peek of a tattoo stretching over his shoulders, and Roderich has to tamp down the sudden urge peel the offending grey cloth back to see what was inked on that pale skin. Oh god. Oh god, he was attracted to Gilbert.

 _You’re on a date, you should have realised this by now, Roderich._ A treacherous voice at the back of his mind whispers. Denial had been more comfortable. Now that he had finally admitted it to himself, Roderich found Gilbert ridiculously attractive. Damn, those shoulders.

Gilbert sat easily across from him, chewing on his sandwich. It was… kind of awkward, at first. The both of them were clearly somewhat unsure on how to proceed. For now, their food served as a welcome distraction.

“How did your final performances go?”  Gilbert asks, looking up at him over his coffee. Roderich is, as usual, beautiful, his crisp white shirt a sharp shape against his fair skin. Gilbert finds himself distracted when he notices a small beauty mark near his lips, and almost fails to hear Roderich’s reply.

  
“It went well,” Roderich says, finally smiling, remembering how well he had slept the day Gilbert had let him rest at the cafe, and how well he had done in his performance the very next day.  

“Thank you, by the way,” Roderich says. If today was a day for admitting things, well… there was no point in avoiding the fact that he was somehow on a date with the barista who had bothered him and gotten under his skin for the past three months. Gilbert tilts his head in confusion at him.

“That day, you called me Tchaikovsky. You didn’t know it, but it helped. He’s the reason I’m studying music,” Roderich blinked as he realised that Gilbert was one of the very few people he had told that to. It was oddly personal, and it seemed strange that it would be this seemingly crass, bothersome, odd barista who would be the one to open him up.

Gilbert smiled, looking at Roderich. When he talked about music, something shifted, the defensive, nervous shoulders relaxing, and an ease in his expression as he talked freely of a childhood in the Austrian countryside, of his mother who brought him into Vienna to hear concerts, of mourning, and remembering loved ones through music.

When Roderich’s voice stopped, Gilbert was still smiling. At first, the young musician had seemed like a fun way to pass a boring shift, with his obvious discomfort and over the top reactions to his teasing. But perhaps Gilbert had just been justifying his attraction to Roderich from the start. God knows he was drawn to his pretty face. But seeing him like this, comfortable, shedding his awkwardness and superior demeanour made Gilbert want to know more of him, and see more of his expressions. He was only slightly horrified to hear his internal monologue get progressively sappier, but was thankfully distracted when he noticed Roderich getting embarrassed at what he had said.

Gilbert thought of his own mother, and the sound of her talking to him in German, warm, steady and safe. He thought of Roderich, working furiously and proudly in one of Europe’s finest Conservatories of music, grief and love tangled into one weight on his narrow shoulders. 

“It’s beautiful, I think,” he said, smiling.

Roderich looks at him, soft and vulnerable, and smiles, too.

 

* * *

 

When they walk out onto the streets at twilight, coffee cups in hand, it is comfortable. Gilbert leant on the railing overlooking the river, and glances sideways at Roderich, who is still sipping from his cup.

“How does it taste?” he asks, grinning.

Roderich rolls his eyes at him, and seems to decide to entertain him.

“It’s okay. Yes, you make it better.”

He sounds fond, and Gilbert’s heart really does beat faster at the sound. He laughs, again, free and warm, and notices the misspelt ‘Roderick” on the cup in black sharpie.

 “I would have spelt your name properly, too, Roderich,” he says, voice dipping low.

Roderich turns pink at that, looking up at him. “You would have written ‘Tchaikovsky’, probably,” he says, doubtfully.

 Gilbert grins, leaning down to murmur against Roderich’s lips, “Not when I worked so hard to get your name, Roderich.”

 

This close, Roderich’s eyes are a bright violet, framed by long, dark lashes. Gilbert takes a moment to mentally give thanks to Tchaikovsky, and presses his lips against Roderich’s. He decides to write all of Roderich’s coffee orders with a little heart shape from now on.

**Author's Note:**

> So... my recently friend got me into George deValier's fanfiction, and I've been in hetalia hell ever since. This is heavily influenced by George's Gilbert and Roderich. Honestly, I just share Roderich's fixation on Gilbert's shoulders, it's pretty obvious.
> 
> A very big shoutout to my friend Nigeli, who got me into this hell, and was also my beta/plotting partner. :)


End file.
